His Alone
by fragile-thoughts
Summary: Patience, he was always told as a child, is one of the most treasured virtues. "Patience," he purrs into her hair, to himself and to her. He knows that she's waiting for him, saving herself for him, but he has to make sure that she fully knows and accepts it.


A sequel/companion piece for "Something More".

* * *

She feels good in his arms.

Brahms presses himself to her back, breathing her in, her hair, her skin; he's convinced he can almost smell her beating heart if he really tries, and when he pushes his teeth and tongue to her jugular, it's as if he's tasting it.

It's as if it responds to him.

As if it belongs to him.

The thought alone makes him twitch with a whimper and push closer, his hips grinding against her. He stops himself with a muffled groan and settles for biting softly into her tender neck, laving his tongue over the faint teeth marks and suckling it into a blossoming bruise in order to keep himself quiet.

If he's too loud, too rough, Greta will wake up and get angry at him again.

He doesn't mind it when she is; her face flushes pink and she looks so pretty, her voice low and trembling as she scolds him, her eyes sparking with a fire that he wishes he could see in them every day. She never sees his face during those moments and could never know how hot he becomes under the mask, and how his mouth spreads into a wide grin.

But then, when all is said and done, she won't let him touch her days afterwards.

Not even a little, and that's something he can't _stand_.

He hears her sigh and goes still, tensing until her breath evens out again and her body settles back against his, fitting there as perfectly as a puzzle piece.

Greta is made for him, just for him, and the thought excites him to the point of frustration.

If only his parents could see him now. They would wonder what happened to their precious, innocent little boy. They would wonder where they went astray for him to be acting like he was now, pressed to his caretaker and leaking with desire.

He huffs out a breathy snicker.

He isn't completely ignorant.

Not like they thought he was.

He knows things that might have horrified them, stolen secrets that he kept stashed away underneath his bed and in his drawers.

He smiles.

Now they aren't here to find out.

They aren't here to take anything else away from him.

They left him with their blessing; they told him that Greta was his.

And she is.

She hasn't allowed herself to give in yet, not completely at least, but he knows that soon she will.

She thinks he can't see when she turns her face away to hide a flush when he touches her. He knows how his large, hulking body and calloused hands have an effect on her. And at every opportunity he has, he uses them to his advantage just to see her different reactions every time.

He's heard her when she's locked away in her room or in the shower, doing naughty things to herself and making such sweet sounds that he couldn't help but touch himself right there inside the wall, only increasing his need for her.

But he can't act. Not yet.

Patience, he was always told as a child, is one of the most treasured virtues.

"Patience," he purrs into her hair, to himself and to her.

He knows that she's waiting for him, saving herself for him, but he has to make sure that she fully knows and accepts it.

" _Patience_."

Greta shifts and her voice drifts out of her mouth in a moan, along with a keening, "Brahms.."

It surprises him and he reacts, biting down hard on her bare shoulder, a muffled snarl ripping itself from his throat. He feels her breathing stutter painfully, and she murmurs, her resting state partially broken. But Greta is a deep sleeper and used to his soothing touch at night; he knows this from evenings in the past when he would sneak into her room to press his fingers against her skin, pleased when he continued to explore and she didn't make a sound. He shushes her with a calming ripple of his hand on her arm and she quiets down again, falling back into a light doze.

She can help him, he knows it.

She can stoke the maddening and delicious ache inside of him, a beautiful pain that he can never seem to get enough of ever since he saw her step through the front door.

She will give him everything he's been chasing after; he knows it won't be long now.

And she will do it willingly.

He shudders and presses his scarred face into her reddening shoulder, anticipation welling in his veins.

Soon.

Brahms whispers her name as he licks the shell of her ear. Her body shivers and he clenches his teeth to contain a giggle, though a smile still twists his lips.

It will be very soon.


End file.
